A NIGHT ON BROADWAY  I

We had planned a night out in Corvallis on Friday. An art show opening, I think it was. But our plans changed after lunch. Instead, we packed small overnight bags and 5 hours later were on Broadway.

We’ve been on Broadway before. In fact, I was born there, in the Swedish hospital on Broadway off Madison. It’s across the street from Seattle University. Most people would say that Seattle University is across from the Swedish, which occupies its own campus on top of the hill.

I’ve only been back to that hospital once since being born there. So it has been 10 years since I had to locate the entrance to the parking lot beneath the hospital and find my way into this city unto itself. My own treatment there is a faded memory.

Our destination was a room on the 12th floor, where oncology patients are treated. My cousin was also there. Like me, he had been born there, six months ahead of me. He wasn’t expecting to be back at this time.

In fact, it was only a few days ago that he went in for some tests to see why he wasn’t feeling so well. Every test gave a worse report. In fact, it was the last report that brought us to Broadway. His doctor had reported not 24 hours before that his cancer condition was inoperable and that he had very little time to live.

Jean and I woke him from his dozing, something a nurse assured us he would welcome. He opened his eyes and immediately smiled and said, “Arturo!” harkening back to days in Roosevelt High School when we studied a little Spanish. I answered, “Roberto!” Friendly, sociable senses intact, he introduced us to the nurse. It was good to see him alert and talkative, although his speech was slightly altered by the sedative dripping through the tube into his arm.

We had more than an hour, maybe an hour and a half, to hear his direct talk about news he had only recently received. Bob was ahead of all of us in processing it. He didn’t avoid the apparent reality. He was not expecting to leave the hospital. He was philosophical about what could not be changed. He didn’t like it at all, but what is, is. He said that everyone knows they are going to die. They just don’t know when, or where or how. He said that he was down to only one remaining question. When?

Bob and I talked about our lives as cousins. We were closest in age to one another of all our 11 cousins (10 male and one female). The two others closest to us in age always lived at a distance. We remembered that it was our mothers loving to be together that resulted in so many times with each other. We laughed at our boyhood adventures. I said I would go home and try to write up some of them.

We left in the night to find our hotel and something to eat. We found it across the street, so we spent the night on Broadway. It wasn’t the kind of Broadway most think of, but it had its lights and lively sidewalks and music-filled bars and eating places. I didn’t happen to see any theaters, but I was fully aware of the drama that always plays on Broadway in that hospital.

In the morning we had our breakfast at the hotel, took a walk around the Seattle University Campus, looking up to the top floor at Bob’s window. His wife, Evalie, was there we learned, but had left by the time we checked out of the hotel and walked across to the hospital. ‘

Bob was in some pain and trying to get the right measure of sedation. More talk about our lives, including his response to a question about how he liked being lawyer. His eyes brightened and he said, “I loved every minute of it. I loved the people I worked with. I loved my clients ─ most of them ─ and some became close friends.” He went on to say how lucky he felt about his active, full life. His love for Evalie, daughters Kay and Carla and his brother Chuck, and Chuck’s wife, Roelina were especially mentioned.

The time came for Jean and I to head back to Corvallis. Carla would be coming home from Mexico in the evening. Chuck and Roelina were coming from Los Angeles on Sunday. He urged us to get started, knowing the distance. His pain was bothering him, but he smiled through it. Our good-bye had a sense of finality. I told him he’d been a number one cousin. He denied it, but said, “Now you’ll be number one.” I answered, “No, Bob, you’re always number one.” Hand squeezes and silent smiles, then we headed out to get off Broadway.  ─ Art Morgan ─ January 24, 2010